


and babydoll, i meant it every time

by mercuries



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Developing Relationship, Exhibitionism, First Dates, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, I'll update tags as I go along, Lapdance, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Nipple Piercings, Pole Dancing, Smut, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:17:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6364600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuries/pseuds/mercuries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jordan Brian Henderson did not do strip clubs. He couldn't even take his coffee with less than three sugars and a 1:2 coffee to milk ratio let alone watch a cluster of burly men parade around on stage in little less than a leather thong. Only, this guy wasn't burly and he wasn't parading. He was wearing heels and make up and he was <i> swaying</i>. </p>
<p>That was the day Jordan started taking his coffee black.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> all blame goes to [martha](http://zombiemichonne.tumblr.com/). this is going to be a lot of sin and i don't want to be held responsible bye

 

 Adam smeared the rest of the gold glitter over his eyelid. Under the honey coloured bulbs backstage it looked especially aurous but Adam knew it would barely show under the neon strobe lights later. Make up wasn't protocol but an enhancement; something to boost his pasty, blanched skin. His paleness didn't show much under the mauve beams, and nobody did seem to care when they had Adam in their lap or grinding against the pole, but he valued his image - more so than usual, since his first routine was with Philippe "my skin rivals the gold of the Sahara desert" that night.

That was the first thing, and secondly, the theme tonight was gold.

Dejan walked past him, checking his hair in the mirror, sinking his finger into Adam's glitter and flicking the specks into the muss of brown.

"I hate this shit. Always gets under my nails."

"No one said you had to wear it," Adam retorted. 

"Looks good though."

Dejan grunted and towelled the rest off with a wet wipe. Adam sneaked a look at him through the mirror, inspecting his outfit for the night - not that there was much to inspect. He donned a lustrous satin tie around his neck and a black vest, paired with gold suspenders. If it were possible to wrap things in velvet like cling film, Dejan may as well have done that with his legs. His arms were greased with baby oil, most probably, so much so that Adam could see it collecting in pools in the ridges of his biceps. Adam couldn't blame him though; he was up first, Dejan was always up first. It was vital he exhibited some sort of, if not the most, eroticism. It was what he did best.

"You with Phil tonight, eh?"

"Yeah. Then got a couple privates. You?"

"This one, then I get the rest off," Adam shot him a look. "What? I'm here every other night, aren't I?" He paused, scratching the tuft of hair on his chin. "Phil's gonna be pissed if you're not dressed in time."

"I'll be dressed," Adam assured.

"Well, good luck," Dejan gave his shoulder a tentative squeeze, beaming without eye contact, then disappeared onto stage as the uproar of the crowd intensified. Like Adam would need any luck.

Tutting, he felt someone twang the elastic of his boxers.

"Oi," he swivelled, gripping on to the rim of the dressing table. "Philippe-"

Philippe suppressed a snort when he came face to face with Adam. He was already dressed, while Adam was only in his underwear. Shame.

"You really went all out on the eye shadow today, didn't you?" Philippe cocked his head to one side.

"It ain't eye shadow. It's _glitter_." Adam held the small tin between his fingers, tossing it into Philippe's hands.

"Yeah, whatever. You'd take any excuse just to wear make up." Philippe sighed and dropped the tin onto the table. "Get dressed already."

Adam buttoned up the rest of his shirt, flexing his arms in the tight material. He let Philippe fasten the bowtie, but not without a complaint about the pointlessness of it being perfect if he was going to yank it off within the next ten minutes. And then he looped the suspenders over his shoulders and clipped them to his jeans, which were already cutting off blood flow to his lower half.

"Hey, you look good." Philippe stood back and admired his handiwork, hands on hips. "I must be pretty brilliant if I can make even _you_ look decent."

"Shut up, Phil."

Philippe threw him a sarcastic frown. "Come here, let me fix that." He gestured to his eyes.

"You don't have to," Adam sulked.

"You need some eye liner."

Adam sulked a little more as Philippe drew two tiny golden wings on his eyelids.

"No one's going to see this," He winced as Philippe budged his jaw and squeezed his cheeks at an awkward angle.

"Unless you get up close." Philippe blinked frantically. "Seen anyone yet?"

Adam mumbled, looking at Philippe through one eye.

"Blond, left wing, second row back, I think? Only just walked in, heh. Newbie."

*

Jordan Brian Henderson did not do strip clubs. He couldn't even take his coffee with less than three sugars and a 1 : 2 coffee to milk ratio, let alone watch a cluster of burly men parade around in little less than a leather thong.

"Don't they, like, fuck every living thing?" he'd asked James before they left the flat.

"I'm not telling you to fuck them. Just - have some fun for once in your life, will you?" James ushered him out of the door, impassive.

"I don't see how any good can come of this,"

The club itself wasn't distant, but James insisted on the cab and paying the fee. Jordan had urged James to make sure they stop two blocks away to eradicate any suspicion the driver may have had. Not that it mattered. What were the chances they'd see the guy again anyway? Knowing his luck, he wouldn't be surprised if the driver was actually a stripper at the place.

Despite it being nearly ten, the street was still bustling with intoxicated students, smoking in huddles, faces softened under the dim street light. Others roared and laughed, sparkling dresses and clashing bottles. Though it wasn't unpredicted for a Friday night, the club stood out amongst the restaurants and bars surrounding it. REDMEN; the sign blared in red, evidently. James nodded at the two bouncers, who allowed them in.

"You know this place?" Jordan was surprised.

"Meh."

The inside of the club threw all means of discretion out of the window. He was greeted with an overwhelmingly phosphorescent purple, lots of it. Lining the central stage and the sofas and the bar. The stage in the middle was bigger than Jordan had anticipated, and he wondered exactly how many people he'd be watching there tonight. There were smaller, circular stages in the spaces either side of the stage, some with poles down the middle. The sofas were an odd carmine colour, though it may have just been the effect of the lights on them. They looked soft, plush. Worn leather, perhaps.

The bar was towards the right of the stage. He awkwardly walked towards it, following James.

The bartender offered them a wry grin and Jordan mirrored it, though he probably only managed a grimace at best. He was blond, had a square, doll-like face, and his name tag read Simon.

"Hey, James. The usual?" His voice was strangely nasal.

"Yeah. And a gin and tonic." James slapped Jordan on the shoulder.

Simon turned away from them, but maintained conversation.

"You don't usually bring friends,"

"Thought I ought to get him out of the flat for once."

Simon made eye contact with Jordan.

"Your first time at a club like this, huh?"

Jordan squinted, rubbing his palms. He noticed Simon had a lisp. "Yeah."

"Pity, you just missed Dejan. He's a favourite here."

"Oh." Simon may as well have said that in a foreign language.

"Ads and Phil are up next though."

Jordan's eyebrows raised, but he kept silent. Simon glanced up at him, and back down again.

"Your drinks."

James murmured a thanks, taking a swig of the acid yellow drink he held. Jordan shuffled his feet, irritated.

"What? Stop looking at me like that. Drink up,"

Jordan complied. "Is this actually what you do in your free time?" 

"Course not. This is your treat."

He led Jordan to an empty settee on the other side of the stage, where it was much less busy. Jordan swallowed thickly and slumped down into the seat beside James, then scanned his surroundings once more. A _strip club._

"You seem to know everyone here."

"Friend of a friend - I'm not here like, every day."

Something in Jordan made him doubt that.

"Anyway, what else were you going to do tonight? Watch reruns of Storage Wars?"

Jordan did have plans for the night. Serious plans, things that definitely didn't involve a tub of ice cream and Netflix. Or Storage Wars. James' rude interference meant he'd have to put his plans on hold for now, and play along with what James insisted was his idea of fun.

He heard a low buzz and James shifted to pick his phone out of his pocket. Jordan watched him chew his lip for a second, before getting up and mouthing "I have to take this," holding the handset up to his ear.

"No," Jordan replied, though it wasn't a question. "Don't leave me alone?" He gripped onto James' wrist.

"Sorry, mate. I'll be just outside. And don't you dare think about leaving."

Jordan fiddled as he watched James leave, holding his hand up in greeting at yet someone else before turning out of the club. Tall, dark hair. Skinny trousers. A meagre excuse for a beard.

He took let the rest of his drink glide down his throat in one go, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. More purple. It was beginning to make him nauseous and dizzy, as though the ground were swallowing his legs as he watched his bouncing knee. He busied himself with counting, and syncing his knee with the beat of the droning music.

Seconds later, something blared through the speakers and he physically jumped. The constant background hum grew into yells and hollers, as the lights dimmed and a beat began to shake the floor. Jordan sat up, and fixated his stare onto the stage, where everyone else seemed to be cheering towards.

Fuck. James had better be back in the next few seconds.

Two guys strutted out from behind the curtain, the clinking of their shoes (were they wearing _heels_?) audible over the music. They wore matching outfits; formal, but feminine, as their builds were slim and each item of clothing hugged their bodies.

Jordan gulped heavily.

The two men pranced towards the ends of the arms of the T shaped stage, hands on hips, hips swishing. The one closer to him made eye contact, which Jordan broke immediately, flushing red. He smirked, and began rolling his hips in time with the music. The dancer was small and looked too young to be legal for the job. His hair was brushed upwards, naturally dishevelled, his arms short and visibly hairless, a sleeve of various tattoos on the left one. When he squatted, Jordan noted his ass and blushed to himself again. The other stripper was drawing squeals from the right hand side of the stage. Jordan sniffed, and the dancer on his side slid back to the centre.

Is it over? Jordan thought.

No, he conversed with himself, as the dancers began gyrating against each other. He caught a glimpse of the other dancer; a brunet, with a beard too scruffy to look professional, yet he somehow pulled it off. Their eyes met, and for the fraction of a second that they did, the dancer winked. Jordan nearly threw up. He looked and was mortified and if he wasn't cherry red by now, this was definitely the icing on the cake.

Where's James? he began to panic, as the strippers ran their hands over the others' flanks, ribs and arms, threatening to tear the material. The brunet who had winked undid his bowtie and twisted the other dancer so that he had his body pressed up to his back. Jordan mentally squirmed. The tie looped around the tanned man's wrists, loose like makeshift handcuffs. Teasingly, his hands slid down into the front of his jeans and visibly groped the tanned dancer, who writhed with the contact.

Something stirred low in Jordan's belly.

It was a good time to remember what Simon had said - the next two up were Ads and Phil. Jordan wondered which was which. 

Reaching its climax, the music boomed throughout the room. There was a lot more grinding than necessary as suspenders were flicked off and shirts ripped and flung to the crowd. In return, the audience heightened their shrieks. The two men, Ads and Phil, grinned at each other, in pride perhaps, then wrenched their jeans off each other in a single swoop, leaving them both virtually naked save for black boxers with gold accents. Notes showered around the pair.

If Jordan thought the onlookers couldn't get any wilder, he was in for a shock. They were up and shaking to the music too, hollering and cheering. He had completely forgotten about James and wherever he'd gotten to, and started panting instead, when he noticed the strain his erection was making on his jeans. How fucking _embarrassing._ He attempted to cross his legs over, with little fruition. No one else was looking his way, anyway. All attention was on Ads and Phil.

They moved away from each other again, swishing backwards towards the stairs at the sides of the stage. They'd switched sides this time, so Jordan had a full on view of the brunet advancing into his direction. Song number one finished and dwindled into the next.

Jordan deduced what the brunet was planning and stiffened, watching perhaps too eagerly when he strolled down the steps. His gaze was fully centred on Jordan, who felt like melting, his organs somersaulting. He could see the dancer up close now, every caramel coloured strand of hair on his cheeks and the green and gold streaks in his eyes. Jordan's breath halted somewhere in his throat.

"Hey, pretty boy," He murmured over the pumps of the music. He noticed Jordan's shaking. "You're tense."

"I-" Spluttering, he let the dancer (Ads or Phil? Ads or Phil? It was the only thing in his head right now) move his palms onto his thighs, wincing while he used his knee to part Jordan's legs.

"Relax," He sank into Jordan's lap. "What's your name?"

People were watching him.

"Jordan," He managed, sounding like a strangled puppy.

The dancer leaned into his ear, brushed his hand against his neck. He smelt good, like expensive cologne and baby powder. Jordan stared back into his eyes, which were awfully close to his. His eyelids were coated in some golden shimmer and outlined in ink. Slowly, Jordan breathed through his teeth, planting his hands into the sofa instead of his lap. He looks like vanilla ice cream, Jordan thought. He probably tastes like it too. Jordan wanted to touch him, so badly, feel his creamy skin. His tattoo went from below his nipple and disappeared into his boxers. Jordan wasn't sure _what_ it was.

"You have nice eyes," the stripper said. He encircled his other arm around Jordan's neck, "They're really blue."

You have nice eyes too, Jordan ached to reply, but he was already pinning their bodies together grinding against his bulge. Their hips collided, over and over, Jordan abandoning control to the dancer. At some point, he let his hands detach from the leather, sweat acting as adhesive between his fingers and sofa, and bent them around the curvature of the stripper's ass. Jordan was most likely violating some sort of club rule, but there were no resistance from the dancer, who continued to play with the chunks of hair that Jordan usually slathered with gel, moulding their bodies together like plasticine.

It felt wrong, getting into someone's personal space without knowing anything about them - heck, Jordan didn't even know his name. And it nagged him; the fact that this guy did this every night, that it was his _job_. For now, though, he couldn't care less.

After Jordan let out a muffled cry, the dancer giggled and unlocked his hips from Jordan's, running his index finger over Jordan's lips, letting the nail snag onto them.

"I'll see you around, pretty boy."

Jordan's breathing quickened as the stripper left his lap, as though he were making up for all the breaths he'd been holding the entire time. Chewing his lip, he watched the dancer swish and strut past and behind him. Behind him was also James, a vision of disbelief and astonishment.

"Did you just-" started James, but Jordan tugged him down onto the sofa.

"Do you know him?" Jordan's pupils were visibly dilated.

"Ads?"

"Yeah, Ads. Okay. That short for something?" 

"Adam - you alright?" James looked a cross between concern and pride.

"Yeah. I love you, James Milner. I really fucking love you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this doesn't involve any stripping but it does involve a very out of the blue caninho date! i feel like it's been ages since i wrote them

Emre fiddled with the red napkin creased neatly around the fork and knife. He unfolded and folded it up again, shrugging when the tissue loosened itself and lay out flat. His phone was squished between his cheek and shoulder, slipping, as he wrapped the cutlery up again.

The waiter had given him three or four sympathetic, borderline pitying looks when Emre had assured him that he actually _had_ a date, and wasn't being stood up. Now he thought about it, it looked a lot like he had been.

"He's actually coming, right?"

Dejan snorted on the other side of the line. This was the third guy he had been set up with in the past month, all courtesy of Dejan himself. The regularity of the dates were getting ridiculous. At this rate his boss would deduce that leaving work two hours early because of his daughter's shenanigans or misbehaviour or antics (Emre quite liked the range of synonyms he knew for the word) was merely a cover up for something else entirely, not regarding his daughter whatsoever. Brownie points to him if he guessed that Emre was going on blind dates instead.

"Trust me bro, it's worth the wait." Dejan's enthusiasm worried Emre more than soothed him. At this moment, 'bro' probably hadn't been used as a term of endearment of sorts, but rather for a calming purpose. Which didn't work very well.

"Yeah, it better be. Decent babysitters don't come cheap, you know. And these meals. What kind of wage do you think I'm on?"

His line of sight was pretty much attached to the door, but anything past it was barred by a pillar. Any moment now. Seriously.

"You didn't even pay for your last meal."

"You know what I mean. And- this had better not be a waste of my time, again."

"Listen to me, he's a total sweetheart. You're going to love him. I promise. You have literally nothing to worry about." Dejan exhaled. "I say that about all of them, don't I?"

"Yeah, you do. You could at least tell me what he looks like." Emre drew lines into the napkin with the knife.

"Nu-uh. You'll find out yourself." He paused. "I'll tell you what. I get off early today, I can go round to yours and babysit Sofia instead. Free of charge."

"List me one good reason why you'd do that."

"I just want you to find someone, for heaven's sake. You're too...melancholic these days. And also, you can stop complaining about wasting your money on these dates."

The waiter glanced his way once more. Emre hesitated, Dejan did have a point. Whether he was responsible enough was a different thing, but Emre didn't usually refuse _free_ favours.

"You know where the key is, yeah? Bedtime's eight, make sure she doesn't have too much sugar. She's at her friends', I'll text you the address in a bit."

From behind the pillar appeared two figures, which were the only two Emre had seen for a while. He quickly glanced up.

"I've been on babysitting duty before, Emre. I know the drill by now."

"Hey, hey, my date. Is he short? Brown hair, dark eyes? Nice ass?" Emre studied the man who had followed a waitress outside. He began stretching upwards and scanning the room like a meerkat, before returning to his standing position. It looked comical, up until the point his gaze met Emre's. He appeared mesmerised for a moment, but Emre passed it off as shock. Shock that Emre was still there, probably. Dejan snickered.

"Nice ass? You work fast. Have a good evening, Em. I'll see you in a bit." He hung up promptly.

Brown hair dark eyes nice ass was making his way over to Emre's table, adjusting the sleeves of his jumper. They fell around his wrists, over his palms, looking too stretched. His walk was either suave or diffident, which Emre found difficult choosing, no in between. He could've been imagining it, but there was a near definite sway of the hips as he bordered Emre's table.

Emre was done for.

*

The restaurant, which appeared somewhat run down from the exterior, was lit dimly. Philippe winced as he walked in, as he could see the place was already packed. A woman with her hair slicked back in a glossy ponytail, alongside another who had the exact same hairstyle, greeted him with a soft smile and the fakest French accent he'd heard in a while.

"Bon soir. Do you have a reservation, monsieur?" Philippe shook his head too vigorously.

"Someone's waiting for me. Mr Can?"

She peered down her nose into a thick maroon book, and nodded. "Right this way, monsieur."

She led him through a myriad of tables and pairs and pairs of eyes. The interior of the restaurant was unlike the outside, the decoration was immaculate. It appeared even lovelier at night, even though it probably looked as prestige during the day: it was almost like a conservatory, where the pillars and walls of the restaurant were blooming with flowers and various plants. Each table was dressed in a white sheet, classic romantic- dinner- date style, the centrepiece usually a skinny bottle of wine. Philippe tried not to marvel too hard, but the place was really pretty. She led him to a dining area outdoors, where the sun still hadn't set and the air was thin and warm, continuing until she stopped at a cleanly presented table with a cleanly presented man seated at. He got up as Philippe approached.

"Have a good evening." She handed them two menus and strolled back. Philippe's eyes nearly widened as he made eye contact with his date.

Dejan did well this time, he thought. Looks-wise, that was. His date matched the description Dejan had repeated over and over: tall, awesome hair, looks good in navy so don't be surprised if he's wearing that, some freckle of sorts here; then proceeding to jab Philippe between the eyebrows.

"Yeah, but does he look good?" Philippe had asked.

"Phil, does that really matter?"

"Yes. As shallow as it does sound, I'm not spending another evening with a tuna fish lookalike."

"I can confirm, Emre does not look like a tuna fish." Dejan thought carefully. "He, he looks like something off a... catwalk, maybe. Or out of the local dump?" Philippe's nose scrunched. "Truth be told, Emre's either one or the other. You can't really blame him, though."

Clearly, catwalk Emre had showed up. Unless this was local dump Emre and catwalk Emre was on a complete other godlike level. He mirrored Dejan's mentally fabricated portrait exceedingly so, Philippe's heart fluttered. He was, in fact, wearing a navy jacket and a white button up, which contradicted the name; since he had at least the first two buttons undone, exposing a triangle of tan skin. His hair was swept to one side, in an almost plastic Ken doll style. The jacket made Philippe feel underdresssed, in a beige sweatshirt. Beige, of all colours. Dejan was terrible at picking out outfits, but at least he played cupid quite well. Setting him up with a modern day Apollo deserved acknowledgement. Eyebrows arched in gratitude.

Trust this guy to be a complete asshole, Philippe thought.

That was when Philippe stopped staring and started talking. "Emre?" When he received a nod, Philippe extended his hand outward for a handshake, almost gracefully. At once, Emre tried taking it gracefully. He fumbled. Philippe pretended not to notice.

"Yeah. Hi. You are?" His voice was like honey. Thick, fermented honey. If you could even ferment honey.

"Dejan didn't tell you?"

"Dejan doesn't tell me a lot of things."

"Philippe," He laughed. Genuinely or not, it was hard to tell for both parties. Philippe sat down in the chair opposite, running his thumb across the laminated menu. Emre stared at him harder. He was sure he knew a Philippe from somewhere. Maybe it was too early to tell.

"I ordered some, um-" Emre waved a hand at the slim bottle of red wine, cork still in. "Do you drink?"

"Oh, yes." Philippe's eyebrows shot up for the second time in a matter of moments. "Sorry I'm so late. I had to move my work shift back a couple of hours. And my boss - probably isn't the most lenient." He admitted.

"Move it back? You work a night shift?" Emre cautiously asked.

"Uh, yeah."

"That can't be easy. What do you do?" Too chatty.

"I'm," Philippe faltered. "I work at a club." At least it isn't a lie, he assured himself. You could have said something riskier. Like a surgeon.

"Ooh. Is it round here?"

He paused, mouth agape. Think of something. Quick. "Uhh, no. It's a good hour drive out from here." This, though, was a lie.

Emre contemplated for a minute, clicking his tongue. "I'm a fireman." Philippe's eyes widened. Modern day Apollo was a fireman. And he was fucking up by nearly revealing _everything_. It's not like Emre wasn't going to find out eventually, though. If this went far enough. A fireman. Great. He wasn't thinking up a new routine involving firemen right then- it would be good though, only it was more Dejan's thing. Lips parted to say something, anything, to get his mind off thinking about his job, but Emre made it easy for him. He was speaking again. Chatty.

"Boring, I know."

A smile would be enough to hide his quickly brewing crush. And embarrassment.

"Not at all. Can we order?" His impatience was conspicuous, but overshadowed his superior motive to change the subject.

"Yeah, sure. You know anything about French food?"

Philippe chuckled nervously. "Not a thing." To which Emre sighed and flipped open the menu.

"Right. So we've got-" Philippe nearly screamed when he saw the prices on the right hand side. There is no way he was paying thirty quid for something that sounded like it was scurrying around in the soil that morning.

Emre was reciting meals with a terrible French accent already. And Philippe could see where this was going: it was exactly where he was three weeks ago when he was on a date with the tuna fish lookalike who provided him with the three most wasted hours of his life on a silver platter served with a crappy portion of dessert. Philippe needed a way out, and now.

Because maybe he _liked_ Emre. Or maybe it was time he started to get over Roberto. Either way, he wasn't spending the next few hours plastered to a chair while he stared at this albeit beautiful man drone on as they shared whatever overpriced French food he'll let Emre suggest.

Overpriced. There we go.

"Isn't this stuff too expensive?"

Emre looked at him. "Well. If the first date's going to amount to anything, it may as well be good."

"That's what Dejan says."

"I'm taking advice from the wrong person, aren't I?"

"Yeah. You are." Philippe shut the menu. Just his luck. Now, risk taking time.

"Let's find somewhere else."

"But- the wine!"

"Take it then." Philippe stood up and took the bottle with him. "Listen," he leaned in a little too close to Emre, "You have to play along. Or else this isn't going to work."

"Can't we just leave?" Philippe wanted to slap him for his obliviousness. "Places like these, they'd cuff you to the chairs if it meant they don't lose customers. Just do as I say, okay?" He wrapped his hand around Emre's bicep (his very thick, solid bicep) and looped it around his shoulder as Emre complied and got up too.

"Follow my lead," he hissed, wrapping an arm around Emre's waist, who twitched.

"What are you doing?!"

It was nice, Philippe would be lying if he said it wasn't, but intentional. So intentional. And _fun_. Not as thrilling as robbing a bank, perhaps, but still.

"Don't say anything else until I say and put this in your jacket." Emre gawked, but slipped his jacket off and slung it over the bottle, trying to make it look as natural as possible. If Emre in the jacket looked good, Emre minus the jacket looked even better. The dress shirt he was wearing hugged him tightly, blindingly white and cutting in at the waist. To prevent any further staring, Philippe began to stumble through the first door, yanking Emre with him.

"Is there a problem, messieurs?" A waiter trotted up to them, eyebrows knitted closely.

"I'm uh. Not feeling my best today. We're probably going to get an early night, or something."

For a second, the waiter looked mortified, and Emre piped up.

"It's our anniversary, you see. But Philippe," He dropped a kiss into Philippe's hair, and Philippe nearly yelled, "has been sick like, all week. We were really looking forward to tonight, weren't we?" Accompanied with an affectionate (painful) squish into Emre's ribs.

Philippe was surprised (and somewhat glad) that Emre was actually playing along rather than standing stiffly like a celery stick, but maybe he was overdoing this. Just a little.

"I see." The waiter exhaled, puzzled. "You haven't ordered anything, yes?"

Philippe watched Emre's grip on the jacket tighten, and he quickly shook his head. "I'm not in the mood to eat at all, honestly. So no, we didn't order anything."

"Alright. I can show you out, if you like."

"Thank you." Emre gave him a relieved smile, which was accepted with an ultimately baffled one, and they were out of the restaurant within the next couple of footsteps.

Once outside, Emre reached into his jacket for the wine and passed it to Philippe. They began walking, to no particular place, down the high street. Between them, for a while, was only the sound of cars and people. Until Philippe sliced open the embarrassment.

"That was. Um." He started.

"Too much?" Emre finished.

"No. It was good. Convincing. Almost. You didn't have to kiss me though."

"It's called playing the part."

Rolling his eyes, Emre slung his jacket back on and tossed Philippe a pocket knife. "Open it," he suggested. "I can't believe we just robbed seventy quid off them." They stopped outside a shoe shop where there was a small bench. Philippe balanced the bottle onto his knee and dug a blade into the cork, twisting it gently. He swung his head around to face Emre, hauling the knife upwards. The cork escaped with a loud pop.

"Seventy quid-! You were going to buy wine for seventy- you have got to learn how to manage your money better."

"Hey, Dejan sang your praises like a bird. I had to impress." Emre shrugged as Philippe took a swig straight from the bottle. "It's alright. Here-" He handed Emre the bottle, who mirrored Philippe, wiping his lips with the back of his hand when he was done and returning it to him.

"Probably tastes better since it's free," Emre said. "Wait up. I've gotta text someone." He fished out his phone, quickly tapped in an address and sent to Dejan, before drawing his attention back to Philippe. "Now what do we do?"

"Now we have a proper date." Philippe linked one arm into Emre's. "So, what food do you actually fancy?" He dangled the bottle from two fingers near the rim as they made their way further down the road. "Or we could go for a walk? How hungry are you?"

"I'm alright. You like chips?" Emre was pushing open the door to a fish and chip shop. Here we go: this was tuna fish lookalike all over again.

 "Let's go to the bridge. And watch the sun go down."  _Well,_ that was unexpected. But Philippe liked the suggestion.

"That is the sappiest thing I've ever heard. I'm up for it." Philippe followed him in and watched Emre make conversation as he ordered a large portion of chips, and grabbed a handful of ketchup sachets. He paid.

Emre was majestic. The way he spoke and moved and breathed, even. He was no marine animal lookalike, or another one of Dejan's shitty set ups. This felt real, strangely, and Philippe was considering a second date. Which was a huge step. Roberto was the last person he'd been on a second date with.

But this was Emre, and even though his eyes were doing much of his thinking, a second date wouldn't be totally out of the question. The only downside would be that it'll give Dejan something to brag about.

Emre unwrapped the chips, letting the warmth spread from his hands to his arms, then shoving a couple down Philippe's mouth. Philippe took another gulp of wine to wash down the potato as they left the shop, and trekked towards the river. It was windier now, colder, and Philippe regretted not wearing something thicker than the sweatshirt. And Emre still wasn't wearing his jacket. After what happened in the restaurant, this was definitely worth a try.

"You cold?" Emre chuckled, realising Philippe's prompt.

"Yeah, okay. I get it. Give me the wine." He draped the jacket over Philippe's shoulders. It hung around him, heavy, but warm, then took the wine off him. They'd downed nearly half the bottle between the two of them already.

The next ten minutes evolved from chip sharing to tipsy flirting to hand holding to waist grabbing (that was definitely uncalled for, but Philippe wasn't complaining) and unsolicited butt pinches, until they reached the river, in sync with the sun setting. They fell into a bench, Philippe folding the paper into a cone and tipping back the chip residue into his mouth, still buried somewhere between the folds of Emre's jacket. They stayed like that for a bit, sharing the remains of the wine, sipping and silent. Somewhere between where the sky was beige and the clouds lilac, Emre hummed.

“You know what? I was thinking. You,” Emre laced their fingers, balancing his chin on them. “Look really familiar. You're sure we haven't met before?"

He knows, thought Philippe. I've given him a dance before. He knows.

Philippe looked back at him questioningly, playing it _cool_. His flippant mind convinced him there was a slim chance they had met. Only Philippe never forgot a face, especially when they were like Emre's. He was never more than a little tipsy when he performed, and Simon was supposed to make sure of that. He wasn't even allowed to get _this_ tipsy. Sometimes the lighting in the club was hazy though, and could distort faces - maybe he'd even given him a lap dance before, Philippe wasn't ruling out that possibility either.

"I don't think so," he answered nervously, fingers twitching."

"We were in school together," Emre warbled, nodding his head as though all his memories were swarming back. A moulded fist under stubble.

"Yeah, Philippe. Pretty sure you sat behind me in Maths."

Fuck, he thought. Emre in Maths. Memories of bopping up and down to see over Emre's head at whatever was written on the board. Dropping pens which rolled dangerously close to Emre's feet, then being too afraid to ask if he'd kindly retrieve them for Philippe. Having his desk nudged back every time Emre leaned back on his chair up until he was so wedged between the wall and his table his breathing space was reduced to less than zero. Emre in Maths was a fireman and he was the human embodiment of perfection _and_ he was on a date with him. Emre in Maths.

Better than "You sat in my lap and promised you'd give me a night to remember."

"That was a pretty stupid place to sit," said Emre breezily. "What were you back then? Four foot?"

"You were crap at Maths."

"Hey, I wasn't bad. Doesn't explain why you sat behind me. I bet you just wanted to look at my ass whenever I got up."

Philippe flushed red and Emre curled his arm around him. "Yeah. I did. You have a nice ass." 

Emre recalled how he'd said the same thing to Dejan.

"You can come back to me when you aren't swimming in my blazer." Frankly, Philippe didn't care. All he wanted was Emre, whether he was shit at Maths or bought overpriced wine or carried a pocket knife. Maybe he was bordering drunk.

He unlaced his fingers from Emre's and moved them to his face instead, giggling. "School was fun. I don't even remember much of it," he mumbled, planting a wet, wine flavoured kiss onto Emre's mouth. Emre kissed him back: he was more controlled, also taking Philippe's face. They didn't last long, though. Emre's phone buzzed loudly, continously, from the inside of his jacket and Philippe pulled away, wriggling out of it and offering it back to Emre. He took his phone out, answered it. He was silent for a second, before speaking:

"So good! How's my favourite girl?"

Philippe quirked an eyebrow, halting mid wrap back into Emre's jacket.

"Of course I do."

More silence. "Daddy's coming home soon. Love you lots. Okay? Mwah. Bye bye!"

Philippe's jaw dropped. Emre hung up.

"Who was that?"

Emre cupped Philippe's face again, smiling into another kiss. Hands buried into beard too. "My daughter," he slurred, lips smushed against Philippe's, who regained reasoning and logic, so shoved Emre from him. He shrieked.

"Your what?!"


	3. Chapter 3

"D'you fancy a quiche tonight?"

Adam weighed two packs of leeks in each of his hands before opting for the one in his left. Grocery shopping with Philippe was daunting. It almost always consisted of plentiful whining, countless excuses to treat himself and eventual feet shuffling once they'd reached the till. And even then, he refused to pay. Adam wouldn't be surprised if most of the food had been eaten courtesy of Philippe himself within two days of the trip.

Scratch that, living with Philippe was daunting.

Today, he was exceedingly invested in the grumbling department.

"Are you even listening to me." Philippe, beside him and leaning onto the trolley, cast the packet of leeks into it. It tumbled over the muffins.

"Yes, I am."

Philippe glared at him pointedly.

"Look, you went on a date with some bloke Dejan set you up with and had a smashing time but turns out he has a kid. So you left him hanging." Adam's eyes flicked to Philippe's. "Told you I was listening. Do you want a quiche?"

"Can you make a lasagne?" Philippe turned the trolley into the dairy aisle, pouting.

"We had lasagne last week." He sniffed and examined the shelf, seemingly choosing between an apricot fat free yoghurt or a strawberry one. He took both.

"I don't care. Everything I've ever wanted- gone- and you won't even make me a lasagne." He grumbled and sunk deeper into his lounge against the trolley.

"You know I'm not your personal chef, right? Besides, you're exaggerating. So what if he has a daughter."

Philippe sulked. "He could've said."

"He _did_."

"I mean, before. And," Philippe lowered his voice to a whisper, "what's he going to say when he finds out about my job?"

Adam dragged the trolley from the front, dropping a gallon of milk into it. "Grab me some cream, will you?"

The glare he received was almost appreciated. "Well," Adam started. " _If_ he finds out about your job. Ever."

"I can't keep it from him. Especially if things get serious."

"Please, you just abandoned him in the middle of nowhere after snogging his face off. I'm sure things aren't going to get serious."

"That isn't what happened." Philippe said.

"Sounds like it. Just drop it. He can be the one that got away that you'll talk about when we're both seventy, freezing our toes off and have no teeth so we live off chicken broth everyday."

"But Adam," Here came the trademark whine, "I really like him." He reached for a pot of single cream and placed it in the trolley. "I just don't know if I'm ready for commitment, whether it's living with you until we're seventy or establishing myself into a relationship I can't," He waved his hands frantically searching for a word. "Maintain."

"You sound like you're getting married or something. It's just a date." Adam shook the trolley to recoup Philippe's attention, that had journeyed to the various cheeses queuing up on the shelf. "And I still don't know what I'm making tonight."

"I'll probably just have some instant noodles."

Utterly distraught, Adam frowned. "No. No instant noodles. I won't allow instant fucking noodles in my flat. And you are not going to spend the rest of the week moping around feeling sorry for yourself. We have work. No one wants you to burst out crying mid routine, so get over yourself."

Philippe was taken aback.

"I am _not_ feeling sorry for myself." Then, after a brief pause and a toss of cheddar cheese into the trolley, "How are things with angel face?"

"Who?"

"Oh don't pretend, Adam. I heard you talking to Si. You bought him a drink?" One of Philippe's brows curved questioningly.

"No- why're you eavesdropping? He was just. Nice. That's all."

"Just nice, and you let him grope you everywhere. Which, strictly speaking, he can't do." Philippe blinked heavily.

"What is this? Interrogate the shit out of Adam day?" Exasperated, he sighed. "Alright, he hasn't come back. Poor thing. Might have to ask Milly to bring him over again. He was gorgeous." Adam looked away, distant, almost dreamily.

"I'm glad you found someone."

Adam sniggered, holding up a singular finger pointedly at Philippe. "I haven't found anyone. I just like him. He may not like me." Adam slowed down to make a point. "You know, sometimes that's how life works, Philippe. You can't get everything you want. And anyway, it's not like my situation's any different than yours."

Suddenly, Philippe perked up.

"He has a kid too?"

"No, dipshit. We can't date clients, remember?" Adam swivelled into the fruit aisle, inspecting some bananas. "How about banoffee pie? That's bound to cheer you up."

Philippe grasped onto Adam's arm.

"So that's a yes?" He picked a bunch and bagged them.

"No, hide."

"What."

"I said hide! Now."

"Phil, we're in a fucking supermarket. Why're we hiding."

"He's here." Philippe hissed. "Emre's here." He repeated. "I saw him."

Adam blinked, expression blank and frankly, lost.

"You're paranoid. Or lovesick. Whichever one it is, we aren't hiding. He isn't here."

"How would you know?" He gripped onto the trolley and tried navigating it out of the aisle, but Adam just pulled it closer towards him.

"Because what are the chances?"

"Look, down there. That's him." Subtly, Adam stretched from his lounging position on the trolley bar upwards, pretending to look across aisles instead. He spied a lot of heads, faces. Nothing to confirm anyone was Emre though.

"There's like twenty people down there. How do you expect me to know which is him?"

"Okay. Keep looking. Guy on the left. He has his back to us and is tall. Like, marginally taller than the guy next to him. Black hair-"

"Yeah, yeah. I see him. We still aren't running away though." Adam paused and dropped back to Philippe : "You up for that pie then?"

"Keep looking!" Philippe grit his teeth, irritated, and Adam returned back to searching above heads.

"Wait up, Philippe. He's holding something."

"What?"

"A kid. A girl. A small girl," Adam corrected when Philippe cursed. "Oops. Maybe it is him."

"Run," said Philippe, even though they really couldn't. Emre turned around and Philippe caught sight of said small girl in his arms.

"Oh shit. He's actually quite-" Adam started.

"Shut up. We have to go. Now." Making his best attempt to escape, and stop Adam from saying whatever obscenities he was planning on describing Emre with, Philippe yanked the trolley in the opposite direction. Adam pulled back.

"No! Let's go talk to him."

"Funny. No."

Adam was already pushing the trolley down to the end of the fruit aisle, Philippe reluctantly skipping behind him.

He watched as Emre shrugged his _daughter_ off his shoulders and placed her softly on the floor, slipping one hand into hers and pushing his trolley with the other. The sight made Philippe feel warm at heart, really, but betrayed at the same time. He was picking the wrong person- a person with a family, while he lived with a stripper, who shared his workplace and occupation. They were hardly a match. And he wasn't going to, he couldn't, ruin that relationship.

Emre had nearly left the aisle by the time Adam and Philippe had practically rushed down there, managing to squeeze past an old lady without knocking her over. Adam followed him, back round into the vegetable aisle. Sighing, Philippe shuffled along with him. He breathed deeply and wiped his eyes.

"Why're we doing this?" He asked Adam.

"Because you need to talk to him."

"Not while she's there."

"Well yeah, of course," Adam scoffed. "But arrange something, at least."

Philippe grimaced, when he saw Emre finally lay eyes on them and began advancing. Towards them.

"I'm like here, if you fuck up." Adam whispered and swished around to try to pretend that cabbages were the most interesting vegetable on the planet.

"Hey," Emre grinned.

Philippe stammered, but managed something that could pass for a greeting. Get your priorities straight, he thought.

"This is Sofia," and Philippe briefly shut his eyes. Emre pulled her up into his arms again. "She can't seem to decide whether she wants to walk or sit in the trolley today, so she's relocated to my arms,"

Your very nice arms, Philippe thought. The arms that felt so very good around _me_ a couple of days ago. I want them back.

"Hi, Sofia," Philippe tried.

Sofia waved, chubby hand rotating slowly.

Philippe looked between her and Emre. She definitely had Emre's nose, and if he stared hard enough, his eyes too.

"Uh. This is Adam," He instinctively reached behind him for a hold on Adam, "My roommate." Philippe could feel Adam's eyes roll as he turned back around.

"Hello," Adam said, looking mildly interested.

Emre smiled. "Hi." He bit his lip. "We should probably get out of the way."

"Um." That was the most awkward meeting he'd ever witnessed, partly due to Adam's blatant eyeing up of Emre.

"Do you want to join us?" He adjusted Sofia. "I mean, I know it's just shopping, but I need to talk to you."

Philippe felt Adam kick him in the shin, and it took almost all his dancer-leg-strength to not buckle down to his knees. His throat dried, and when he swallowed it felt like sandpaper.

 _It_ _was happening_.

"Yeah, okay."

Emre fastened Sofia into the trolley seat, ignoring her whiny protests.

"I missed you," Emre began, navigating the trolley past another two. Philippe trailed quietly behind him. "I don't know why you left so abruptly last week. I was scared."

Philippe gulped once he'd heard the words. Blood hammered in his ears, the sandpaper built up thicker, rougher. "You missed me?" He asked shakily.

"Yeah, it was the best time I'd had in ages."

The best time he'd had in ages. That had got to be an exaggeration. Stealing wine, devouring chips, watching a mediocre sunset while treading the thin line between tipsy and drunk, and then being abandoned on a bench didn't sound like the ideal date, even if they did have _fun_.

"You're exaggerating. I left you alone on that bench after you told me about..." He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose when Sofia looked up at him with huge, naive eyes.

"You did, but that's understandable, I suppose. I should've said before."

How wonderful, Philippe thought. You have him feeling guilty for keeping a very big secret while you too, are keeping an even bigger secret. That is, if you could even measure them on the same scale. 'Surprise, I actually have kids' and 'I actually work in a strip club as a, you guessed it, ding ding ding, stripper' were exactly polar opposites.

"Daddy," Sofia chirped. "Can we get pink milk instead?" She was swinging her legs frantically to grab his attention, and divert it from choosing white over pink milk.

"Sure, Princess," He took a bottle of strawberry milk and dumped it into the trolley.

"Dejan was meant to tell me," Philippe placed a shaking hand onto Emre's arm. It wasn't the most confident thing he'd done today.

"I don't see you any differently if anything," That was a step up.

"Hm?"

"It just came as a shock at first. I think. We could give this another go?" He suggested. And another step. The drought in his throat seemed to appease as he spoke.

"Yeah," Emre's eyes lit up, and his mouth stretched into a smile that nearly blinded Philippe. "Well, Dejan would like that."

"I don't care about what Dejan thinks."

They shared a short moment, taking in each others' faces and smiles and warmth.

"So," Sofia started, wiping a set of chocolate yoghurt pots off the shelf and into the trolley. "Are you my daddy's boyfriend?"

Philippe chuckled.

"Let's hope so," said Emre, and Philippe blushed.

He couldn't stop the feeling of this being so _wrong_. He had Emre and his daughter believing that they could actually have a relationship- or wanting one anyway. But it wasn't possible, anything long term wasn't his thing. It couldn't be.

And his daughter- that was a deciding factor, surely? Had he over reacted last week? Adam could be right, perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing after all. Especially if he was going to try keep this short- shorter than whatever he had with Roberto, anyway. Because if he did let it breach that, it wasn't going to end well.

Sofia made a face.

"What's wrong?" Emre asked, imitating her face.

She beckoned Emre closer to her, and whispered something into his ear. He pretended to act shocked, and tickled her stomach while she writhed and giggled heartily.

"Don't say that again," He grumbled in fake anger and smacked a kiss to the side of her forehead. In return, she wailed and playfully slapped his neck.

Philippe pursed his lips, awkwardly shuffling from right foot to left.

"You should probably take my number," he blurted. "Adam's probably starting to get worried about whether he should get seeded bread or wholemeal bread. For the record, seeded is the way forward."

"Sure." Emre replied, with a short laugh. "Here," He plucked his phone out from his pocket and handed it to Philippe, hands brushing dangerously close. "I mean, you've met Sofia now. That's a good thing, right? At least we're over that."

Philippe envied his honesty. "I guess," He was reluctant, as he navigated into Emre's contacts, added his number and his name, risking precisely what relationship and leaving a couple of kissy face emojis on the end.

"Thanks," he said, and returned the phone, watching Emre's mouth tug into a smile intently as he noticed. "I'll see you later. Bye, Sofia."

"Bye, Philippe." Though her Philippe sounded more like 'pheepay' she gave him a wave and a bright smile, too similar to Emre's when he'd found out that Philippe apparently wanted to start over again.

He had better not get attached.

He turned and began to scan the aisles in search for Adam again, finding him tossing donuts into the trolley.

"How'd it go?" He asked when Philippe approached, without looking up from the packet he was holding.

"He took my number," Philippe admitted slowly.

"So you're alright with his daughter then?"

"I'll give it a go,"

Adam laughed. "Yeah right. A few minutes ago you were dreading it. Did he just magically forget last week or something?"

"He said it was understandable," Philippe addressed the bag of bread rather than Adam. "I didn't think it was."

"He must really like you." He heaved a sigh. "You aren't the only one who's scored, by the way."

"Huh?"

"Milly, he just texted me angel face's number. Or what he claims to be.

 

*

 

James had Jordan's legs in his lap, arms reaching for the bag of Haribos resting on Jordan's stomach. There was a cricket game on and Jordan was bored out of his mind, but he was only there to prevent James from hogging all the Haribos. That, and there was pretty much nothing else he wanted to do. Saturday afternoons were the laziest afternoons of the week, in which both of them should be doing something productive; such as cleaning the bathroom or finally going shopping to satisfy the empty kitchen.

"We need to go to the supermarket," He picked up the bag and jiggled it. "We're out of these. And everything else."

"Not good enough. Pop down to the corner shop, would you?" James pried the last cola bottle from Jordan's hands. They'd last gone to the grocery store three weeks ago.

" _No_ , Milly. It's your turn."

James glared at him, furrowing his eyebrows and shifting Jordan's legs off his lap, which was becoming increasingly numb over the lengthy cricket game.

"I need to ask you something,"

"Yeah?"

"What happened last week?" He outlined the buttons of the remote control with his finger, as Jordan dumped his legs back onto his lap.

"When last week?" asked Jordan, wholly vacant.

"At the club, you fucktard."

"Nothing," he lied.

"Mmm. So I take it you're not angel face?"

Oh God, Jordan remembered. Angel Face was who Simon had said the drink was for when he passed it to him, liquid sloshing around in his glass so violently it gave him a headache. It had churned in his stomach later, and he'd stared at every customer a little too hard to perhaps break anyone down into confessing it was them who bought him the drink. He had spent ages watching the lines in people's faces and the movement of their hands, but something in him knew and slightly wished that it was Ads who had bought it for him.

"No."

Unconvinced, James reached for his phone, swiping at it for a couple of seconds before shoving it into Jordan's face.

Jordan read the last message received, which was clearly from someone called Adam.

 **[Adam]** bring angel face again

 ~~~~Jordan dropped the empty bag of sweets on him with a tiny crackle.

"Angel face?"

"Yeah. I know it's you, because I didn't take anyone else to Redmen." James explained.

"It's not me," Jordan sulked. "He called me pretty boy."

James' eyebrows shot up. "You two had a blast then?"

"You know what happened, Milly."

All pet names aside (and how reluctant he was to accept he had pet names) Jordan was ecstatic. This was a reason, an excuse, to go to the club again. He wanted to see Adam dance, he wanted him on his lap, he wanted it all.

He'd looked so good last Friday, in those tiny, tiny black and gold shorts and platform heels. One had to admire being able to walk, yet alone dance, in heels that high. Of course Jordan wanted to see him again, who wouldn't.

Only, he couldn't let James triumph. Even though on the night, he had blamed his embarrassingly shameless actions on whatever he'd drank (it wasn't even much) and he was completely sure his not even drunk self had James utterly fooled, giving him the pleasure of knowing Jordan actually benefited from their trip irked him.

"Do I look like an angel to you?" Jordan belched to confirm his point. "Maybe he's looking for another stripper. Angel face sounds like a stage name to me."

"Don't try escape this, Jordan. Why would he want me to bring a stripper to him?"

_He's onto you. Change the subject._

"Well, you still haven't told me how you know anyone there," Jordan quipped.

"Yes I did. Friend of a friend. Anyway," James took in a deep breath and switched channels. "What's it to you?"

He balled up the bag and aimed it at the bin. He missed and groaned.

"I'm not going to that club again," Jordan said, and James lifted his phone.

"Why not?" James replied with the attention equivalent to a goldfish.

"Because I don't want to."

"Adam wants to see you." He put his phone back down and knocked the back of Jordan's knee with his fist. "I know it's you."

"Okay, so?"

"So go see him. I know you want to. I saw how you were all over him in the club. Um, don't think that's allowed, by the way. There are rules, and you're lucky you got away with that last week."

"I don't want to go." Jordan muttered.

"You can tell him that yourself,"

"No."

"I just sent him your number."

"Why the fuck would you do that?"

And then Jordan's phone, lifeless since last night when he was playing a very intense game of Angry Birds, buzzed. Twice.

"Fuck off, Milly," Jordan said, but he was positively screaming on the inside.

He stretched across for his phone, and unlocked it, groaning as another message came in.

 **[unknown number]** is this jordan?

 **[unknown number]** haha do u remember me?

 **[unknown number]** it's adam from redmen

"You've really outdone yourself this time Milly," he lodged half his face in his hand, trying to look as furious as he possibly could, contrary to his excitement. "How the fuck do you talk to a stripper?"

James shrugged, because he really didn't know, and said "Like any other person?"

He texted back, then added the number to his contacts.

 **[You]** yeah

The reply was almost instant.

 **[Adam]** you coming back soon?

 **[You]** maybe

"Milly I can't do this. It's not going to work."

"Then don't?"

 **[Adam]** good i want to see you again

"Look at this." It was his turn to bar James' vision with a phone.

James looked blankly between the phone and Jordan. "It's nothing we don't know already,"

The sofa felt too hot underneath him, and his hands, fastened around the metal in them, were sweating. He was clearly finding it very difficult to keep his feelings intact, and he felt very close to how he felt when he was with Adam which was grossly ridiculous since they were only innocently texting.

"I'm going to go," said Jordan. "I'm going to see him."

James snorted. "I knew that. Now go to the fucking corner shop and get the sweets." He paused. "And in return I'll teach you strip club etiquette."

"Don't need it," Jordan got up, fixing his sweats around his hips.

"Judging by the places your hands were in Jordan, I think you do."

"D'you got any money?" James fished in his pockets for a pound coin, and pressed it into Jordan's outstretched hand.

"Thanks." Promptly, he left the flat, taking his phone and keys with him.

James had to be messing with him. There was no way in hell anyone would go after him after that totally nervous display he pulled. Nervousness isn't attractive, neither is stammering or mewling when a complete stranger rubs his arse against your crotch.

It was a shot in the dark, but Jordan still sent a message.

 **[You]** how do i kno it's u and not some scam

That's the lamest excuse ever, Jordan realised, to get a photo of someone. So you can clarify it isn't your roommate trying to set you up.

Two minutes later, when he was feeling generous enough to let the shopkeeper keep the change, he proved himself wrong, as a blurred selfie began to load up on his phone. It fully loaded as he left and began his journey back to the flat. He recognised the two dancers at the club from the photo immediately, Ads and Phil. Only, they were in a supermarket and dressed, to put it simply, incredibly ordinarily. No makeup, no glitter. Anyone around them would never guess they were, as James says, male entertainers. Unless they had the pleasure of being entertained by said males.

At least he knew, or could vaguely believe, that James wasn't behind this.

 **[Adam]** u remember us? ;)

Yes, Jordan thought. I fucking remember the way you two were so comfortable with each other on stage and how that heavy purple light does not do your faces any justice. Then it hit him: why were they shopping together? Zooming in on the photo, Jordan could tell they were in the instant foods aisle, so any conclusion that involved shopping for makeup was wiped clean.

Maybe they lived together, and went shopping _t_ _ogether_ , instead of relying on a weakly upheld rota like he and James did. Maybe they _are_  together. That would explain all the overly comfortable groping and touching, but it wouldn't explain why Adam was so eager to see Jordan.

The worst case scenario could be the two of them were searching for someone else to _join_ them, and Jordan was the next target. He began drawing up valid excuses to let them down as politely as possible. Somewhere between 'I have this on and off thing with my roommate, sorry' and 'My mother raised me as a devout Christian and I'm not going back on that now' he received another message.

 **[Adam]** send us a little something too ;)

Us. Adam had basically just confirmed that Phil was in on this too, and he freaked. He nearly dropped his phone reading the message, and the excuses started zipping in and out of his mind so fast he had to stop mid-walk and stare wide eyed at his phone. Now he recalled, Phil had put his ass up on display for him, or so it seemed, and then winked cheekily at him.

This could not be happening, thought Jordan. I cannot allow myself to be unintentionally roped into a threesome because I cannot contain my urges for a stri- ahem, male entertainer.

Only, Jordan had to keep his cool. If he didn't send anything, suspicions were likely to rise. And it was just a photo. Outside the flat, he took a selfie with the Haribos held beside his face, pouting excessively. Hesitating, his finger lingered over the send button before slamming down in it almost angrily.

He stormed up the stairs and unlocked the door, chucking the bag of sweets onto James (who had barely moved a muscle since Jordan left) when he entered the living room.

"How comes you never told me Ads and Phil are dating?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos will be loved and cherished! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oImmtsAIW4g) is the song the first dance is done to. i know it's not a stripper song, really, but bear with me! + please don't get used to regular updates... sooner or later writer's block will strike again

"What? Dating-? What makes you say that?"

Jordan sank the phone under James' gaze. "They're shopping together."

"So what? They live together." He grunted and switched the channel.

"How do you know that?" Jordan enquired slowly. "And why do you have Adam's number anyway?"

James paused for second that seemed to drag on longer. "I've known him for a while," he said, finally. "He went to my college. Used to ask me to copy notes and such."

"Yeah, right." He settled back down onto the sofa.

"Not lying." James assured and ripped open the new bag of Haribos.

"Why should I believe anything you say?"

James opened his mouth as if to say something, only to shut it again. He grabbed the TV remote. "You still going to see him, though?"

"Yeah- maybe." Jordan held his hand open for James to empty a scattering of sweets into. James began filtering through the bag for his least favourite ones, then dropping them into Jordan's outstretched palm.

"Go on Saturday. The best dances are always Saturdays,"

"Why?"

James rolled his eyes. "You're full of questions today, aren't you?"

Jordan still doubted how he knew _any_ of this. The friend excuse wasn't going to hold up much longer, because James' advice was getting more or less on a personal level. All these strip club tips were slowly treading dangerously close to addict territory, but there was no way Milly, sensible head over heart Milly, was ever a regular attendant at a strip club. Jordan was completely convinced Milly would probably wrestle a bear (twice) before he went anywhere near one. He was immediately proved wrong, because here he was, instructing Jordan on how to get the stripper he wanted and where to sit and how much to tip. And what not to do, of course which included majority of what he did last Friday- "No groping, Jordan. Honestly just sit on your hands if you get any ideas. It isn't that difficult." 

Once James had cleared up that Philippe and Adam weren't an item, for various reasons- one being the lack of professionalism if they were, Jordan listened. A lot of it was drone, since James' voice wasn't exactly that of an inspirational public speaker, but nevertheless, some of it, Jordan hoped, would deem useful. He also endured some unnecessary telling off, which he received with an exaggerated eye roll.

"I'm only going because Adam asked," Jordan clarified.

"I know," and James leaned in to Jordan's phone as he checked his newest message.

"Oi," he shielded it with his hand, but James only flapped it away.

"You were showing me earlier. What's happening now?"

"Mind your own fucking business and watch your cricket?" Jordan shot back.

"Stop getting so defensive, Jord."

Jordan heaved and passed James his phone.

"That is a terrible photo of you," He joked.

"I didn't ask." Slightly offended, Jordan snatched his phone back. He didn't think the photo was too bad, though the pout may have been too much. Adam had replied with an angel and lollipop emoji.

And then two heart eye ones.

 

*

 

They went on Saturday night, a repeat of the earlier week; a cab two roads too close, a bright red sign, and two bouncers who allowed them in after James' barely-there nod. The inside of the club felt different today, a solemn, gentle feel instead of an electric one, which almost soothed Jordan. Previously, the club had a blinding, purple glow, but today it was set in a mild light blue. For a strip club, the atmosphere was oddly docile.

A low chatter lingered around the customers, which was the only sound in the club. There was no pounding music, no men up on stage ripping off items of clothing. Just people, clustered in groups around tables and on settees. It reminded Jordan a lot of a relaxed café environment.

Only, the nervousness washed over him again the second he sat down. Last Friday had been a first, so at least he knew what to expect this time. Still, the ambience was intimidating: someone like him really shouldn't be in a strip club. He wanted to be at home, curled up on the couch with a large four cheese pizza and a half decent movie buzzing in the background. (James had tried to get him to eat healthier, but he threw that back in his face with a very defiant "Well, go shopping then!". They both figured that was one of the many issues they needed to solve as soon as possible.)

"They do that," James explained, reading Jordan's thoughts. "They make everything so amicable and _nice_ and then the performance blows you out of the water."

"Hm," Jordan agreed.

There was large board advertising the performance tonight would start at eleven, and being only quarter to ten, they decided to get some drinks. Simon wasn't at the bar today. Instead, a shorter man was his substitute. He was, like majority of others at the club, very handsome, hair swept back and blond.

"Hey, Loris! Long time no see."

The bartender looked up, slightly taken aback by the sudden call, but when he lay eyes on James, broke into a chuckle. He leaned over and clasped James' hand in a strong handshake.

"Your friend?" He nodded toward Jordan.

"My," James took a hard look at Jordan, who rolled his eyes. "Roommate. Whatever."

Loris laughed again. "What can I get you two?"

"Surprise us," James said.

Loris pursed his lips and smiled, thoughtful. "Hmm, okay. I'll send your drinks over in a bit."

James led Jordan over to an unoccupied table, and they settled into a sofa. "So. Your first _proper_ dance. How you feeling?"

"What was last one then?"

"Oh, they were just having an amateur night. For you know, all the guys like you."

"Shurrup." Jordan grumbled and looked away.

"No, this is going to be exciting!"

"Yeah, bout as exciting as when you taught me that touching other blokes in the club wasn't allowed."

"Listen, I'm just trying to keep you out of trouble. Ads allowed it, it doesn't mean anyone else will. Heck, he might not even be dancing today."

Shocked, Jordan frowned at James. He'd already began texting, the light from his phone matching the lights around them.

"Are you fucking joking. I came here to see him and there's the possibility he isn't even dancing?"

"Hey, calm down." James' eyebrows furrowed and he glanced up from his phone. "He's here, you'll see him. He asked to see you anyway. He should be here."

"Yeah, unless he's messing." Jordan grunted.

"He isn't messing, Jord."

"I suppose you know that because you've been texting him."

"Jesus- would you drop it?" James exclaimed, as their drinks were placed down on their table by a server. He raised his hand in thanks. "He's here, and you'll see him. Whether he's on stage or not."

Jordan absent-mindedly drank a mouthful of the drink in front of him, mentally cursing James.

The lights dimmed suddenly, until the only thing illuminating Jordan's face and allowing him to still see James were the light from his phone (which he put away once the lights completely went out), the strip lights decorating the stage and the kite shaped ones imprinted into the wall behind them. A soft mutter arose around the club for a couple of moments, brushed away harshly by the music starting: five loud beats and a yell. At each beat, a spotlight opened up around a pole, enshrouding it in a sapphire light. As the song steadied and grounded into a spellbinding rhythm, five dancers strolled out onto stage, each taking a position at a pole. The dancer closest to Jordan and James had either ginger or dark blond hair, an artificial take on Jordan's own sandy hair, and a various array of tattoos coating his arms. He stuck a finger into the belt loop of his jeans, and clicked his tongue at a reverent customer, who was already waving notes at him.

A frequent customer, or so James would say, thought Jordan, who gripped his drink tighter, and took a tiny sip. This time he actually registered the taste, it was both bitter and sour.

The vocals of the song sounded not too long after, bellowing through the room and leaking into the applause that thundered when each of the dancers launched themselves against their respective poles. Then attire was flung off, first the sleeveless baby blue shirts (which complemented the ginger-or-blond dancer extremely well) followed by the jeans. When the audience calmed a little, each dancer dragged themselves up their pole, using a hooked thigh to stretch themselves out.

Jordan didn't want to be watching the dancer in front of him, because he wasn't Adam. True, he looked good, the blue hue of the room making his body almost glow, and his tattoos were basically _artistic_ , but he wasn't Adam. The odds were low that he was going to get down from on that pole and call him a pretty boy. That's what Adam did and that's what Jordan wanted.

Jordan arched his neck to try and catch a glimpse of the other dancers, to see if Adam was on stage. It's likely he is, Jordan thought. He'd make a great pole dancer. He has good legs, Jordan remembered, from the way he tightened them around his thighs before.

Instead of Adam, Jordan made eye contact with another dancer. He had dark skin and black curls, and he flashed a huge grin once he saw Jordan looking in his direction, but from upside down on the pole, he looked rather freakish. Once he straightened and spun around the pole, Jordan could see that he was in fact quite handsome, defined cheekbones and a strong jaw. If he squinted, he could see a nose piercing. The dancer maintained eye contact with Jordan for a bit, as he flipped his body around the pole and licked his lips.

"Sit down," James dragged him back onto the sofa by the arm, "don't be rude."

Rude, Jordan thought, is probably the last thing any of these people will complain about me being.

Reluctant, Jordan sat back down, keeping his eyes on the dancer before him instead. This was a bad place to sit, there were only two dancers he could watch without someone's wandering hand flailing up in the air and blocking his view. The club had already been nearly full when Jordan and James had entered anyway, so they were lucky to have even found somewhere to sit.

The dancer, who Jordan decided was too ginger to be considered blond, was short too, like Adam and Phil had been, and he continued by swivelling down the pole with legs open in a large V. Presumably, the others did the same, as this evoked a flurry of cheers from the other side of the stage. It was graceful, each one of his movements against the metal. He moved with the agility and balance of a ballet dancer, but obviously everything being ten times more provocative.

The song built up to a short climax. Just before, the dancers slid off the pole, from whichever ridiculously _bendy_  position they were previously in, and as the words 'sink or swim' sounded, a decibel higher than the other vocals, they catapulted themselves up onto the pole, legs first.

This caused the room to erupt again; Jordan could even hear James hooting from somewhere beside him. As the song emptied its first verse and chorus, the dancers stepped down from their podiums and found a lucky customer to service. James, closest to Ginger-or-Blond found him standing proudly around his thighs, feet digging into the sofa. Jordan watched jealously as Ginger-or-Blond pressed James' face into his inner thigh and James reached to tuck a couple of notes into his shorts, a thick grin plastered to his face. From up close, the dancer also looked very young, but his beard gave his age away. He had tiny chocolate button eyes, and dimples carved into his cheeks that Jordan only spotted when he smiled as James filled his briefs with money.

"Gracias, mi amor," Jordan heard the dancer say, as he switched position so that James' face was presented with a lot of ass, then he slid down into James' lap, rolling his hips once, twice, before grasping James' thigh and locking it over his own. Jordan could see that this gave the dancer more access to James' crotch, and he watched mouth held wide open as the dancer continued to grind. James threw his head back in laughter. He guffawed loudly, then bit into his lip, still smiling. More notes were stuffed into the dancer's skin tight shorts. Jordan felt his hands shaking.

The song quietened in the background, excruciatingly sluggish. It didn't reach complete silence though (the club wouldn't reach complete silence anyway, not with all the voices and the screaming) but it quietened enough for the actions the dancers were performing to become even more sensual. A little into the almost silence, the dancers jumped down from their customers and wandered back up on stage, and the lights muted with them.

There was a second, a tiny millisecond, of the utter silence Jordan craved, in which the entire club sat in anticipation of what would happen when the lights were back on. Suddenly the music crashed around them again, loud and demanding, a scare for some. They all roared again, though, when the dancers had abandoned their poles and began dancing centre stage, more on the unbearably intoxicating side than the mellow seductive one prior. In Jordan's first dance, there was a lot of grinding and touching and groping, but here the five dancers performed separately, gyrating against the floor or showing off extravagant flips.

This excited the crowd more than the other segments of the dance, and Jordan could easily tell why. The entire routine was so well choreographed alongside the music, and these were probably the club's best, if not most popular, dancers. From centre stage, Jordan could recognise the dancers better. Phil was there too, alongside a taller man Jordan was sure he'd seen before. Adam wasn't up on stage- a part of Jordan broke off in disappointment, but he wasn't able to see the other dancers anyway. Whether he had been there or not wouldn't have made a difference.

The song ended in a similar way to how it started, five sporadic beats. Each dancer finished up with a somersault of some kind, the crowd's plaudits dying down slowly as they sauntered backstage.

Jordan was still in utter shock, firstly at James' generous tipping (he hadn't even given Adam a penny) and at the pure amount of energy generated by the dancers that spread to the audience like wildfire. He was trembling, or close to, when James clutched his arm, looking absolutely euphoric.

"I told you. The dances are good on Saturdays." he said, gulping back the rest of his drink. "Now listen, I have a surprise for you."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, I bought you a dance with Adam."

Jordan's heart practically sprung out of his chest.

"No biggie, no need to thank me. He's probably waiting for you down there." James pointed to a small corridor Jordan hadn't seen before. Nestled between the stage and the bar, it didn't appear obvious at first sight. The insides were painted a bright red, or from what Jordan could see anyway- the entrance was barred by another bouncer. There were two men queuing there too, but they disappeared inside seconds later.

James had bought him a private dance with Adam. He tried to let it sink in, but he couldn't. There was no way he was going to make it out of this looking as relaxed as anyone else at the club. He was still a nervous wreck, unfortunately.

"What do I do?"

"Just tell them you're with me," James assured. "They'll let you in. Have fun! But- drink the rest of this first." He swirled the drink in Jordan's glass.

"Okay," Jordan stood up, and threw the rest of the part bitter part sour drink down his throat. It made him dizzy. "Okay. Thanks, Milly."

He stepped towards the corridor, swallowing when he came face to face with the bouncer. He was only a little taller than Jordan, but his body structure intimidated him.

"I'm with James," The bouncer raised an eyebrow. "Milly," Jordan corrected, and the bouncer grinned.

"I know," he said. "I saw you two come in together." He unhooked the rope. "Go on."

Jordan breathed a quiet sigh of relief and walked into the corridor. There was another man at a table, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had golden hair and a gleaming smile. He addressed Jordan softly. "Milly's, right?"

"Right," Jordan replied, unsure. They seemed to know him, like they were waiting for him, which was creepy to another level. But Milly had most likely pulled some strings to get this to work.

"Booth seven," and he handed Jordan a thin red card. "Enjoy your evening."

While searching for booth seven, Jordan read the card. It featured a silhouette of a man in heels on the left and a neon typeface with the word REDMEN on. Below that were a list of rules, things James had gone over with him before. There was a warning about cameras and that the club had rights to take legal action if anything inappropriate were to happen.

Jordan was shaking now, out of anticipation and fear. Something in his belly was stirring again.

Nothing new then, he thought.

Booth seven was in the centre. The first six booths had been small from the exterior- booth seven onwards were visibly larger, held shut by two thick sliding doors. Jordan pushed one open, and he was greeted by a room painted a staggeringly gaudy red. In the centre, with its back to the door was a dark plum coloured sofa, less worn from the ones in the communal area of the club. At the back of the room was another set of doors, identical to the ones he'd just walked through. In one corner, he spotted a sleek chest of drawers with a small set of speakers on, connected to a CD player.

On each of the walls either side of him were mirrors, which Jordan didn't see much point in. However, he did like the concept of the pole in front of the sofa.

Good, Jordan nearly said out loud.

He seated himself on the sofa and waited. He couldn't stop himself thinking about Adam, and how appreciative he was to James right then, and how it was extremely likely Adam would be dancing on that pole, just like Ginger-or-Blond did.

Mid thought, the doors facing him glided open, to reveal a proudly smirking Adam. He wore a similar outfit to the others, but instead of trainers he donned black heels with a block of light blue in the wedge, and tight leather shorts made up for the jeans the others wore. He leaned on the border of the door, hip jutting out at a deliciously grab-worthy angle- but Jordan knew now, he couldn't just _grab_.

"So," Adam smiled. "You never told me, do you prefer angel face, or pretty boy?" He slunk towards Jordan, sliding the door shut behind him.

"I- I don't know," Adam placed a warm hand on Jordan's either two or three day stubble once he was standing above him. He scratched through it with his fingernails, and tilted Jordan's chin up.

"You don't know?" He chuckled gently, and straddled Jordan, planting bare knees into the sofa and enclosing his thighs. "I heard you watched the show tonight. Did you like it?" His voice was sweet and thin, and it drove Jordan crazy.

"Why weren't you in it?" He asked, too quickly. From this close, Jordan could see the teal shadow garnishing his eyes and the electric blue eyeliner decorating them too.

He laughed again. "Because, pretty boy," Jordan winced as Adam ran a finger from the inside of Jordan's thigh to his knee, "I was preparing for this," He beamed. "Obviously." His nails sunk into the base of his knee.

Jordan's breathing quickened. As unlikely as that was, Adam's shallow, husky voice up close, without all the yelling and applause, sounded the way caramel tasted. It was doing _things_  to Jordan. Especially when he leaned in alarmingly close and hissed into Jordan's ear.

"So, did you miss me?"

"Yeah," Jordan breathed confidently, beside himself, and his heart leaped into his throat.

"I know you did," Adam replied with a chuckle. "I missed you too." Now, he was unzipping Jordan's hoodie, shrugging the grey off his shoulders leaving him in the tight white top Jordan had saved for this particular occasion. When the hoodie fell behind him, folding on itself on the sofa, Adam felt around Jordan's shoulders, his upper and forearms. "Nice," he whispered, as a muscle tensed underneath his touch. "You work out?"

"Milly drags me to the gym once in a while," he admitted, voice shaky. Adam laughed again, dipping his finger into a fold in Jordan's bicep.

"Let's set the mood, shall we?"

"But wait-" Jordan reached out to grasp Adam's wrist as he stood up. He wasn't sure _why_  he wanted Adam to wait, but here he was, hand looped around wrist and thinking up an excuse. Nothing came to mind fast enough.

"Hm?"

Quickly remembering the club rules, Jordan let his hand drop. He shook his head abruptly. "Never mind." he said.

Adam offered him a delicate smile and bit the inside of his cheek. He strolled towards the speakers, pushing round on the buttons until he found a track he liked.

The quiet voice of a woman poured into the room, and Adam sauntered back to face Jordan, taking his hand and linking their fingers. He began to run them over his clothed chest, but Jordan tugged them away.

"What are you doing? The cameras-" He searched frantically at the ceiling for a sign of one.

"There aren't any," Adam said. "They tell you there are. So you don't try anything." He lifted Jordan's arm again, but he was unconvinced.

"How'd you know?"

"Dejan- the tall guy on stage, yeah. Apparently he brought one of his exes back here- and he says one thing led to another, but we all know Dejan. However, no one said anything to him. I mean, they could've. But he still has his job I guess." He began idly drawing slight circles on Jordan's wrist as he spoke.

"You've never done this with someone else?"

Adam shook his head slowly.

"Still, I don't know-"

He perched himself on Jordan's lap, sucking on his bottom lip until it swelled cherry red. Jordan's eyes widened, enthralled.

"Don't you want me, Jordan?"

Yes, Jordan thought. So much. Even if it meant right here, where anyone could catch them. 

His hand was feeling for Jordan's again, and once he'd found it, repeated the path from up his neck and downwards, letting Jordan's hand linger especially over his nipple. When he'd reached it, Jordan drew in a heavy, sudden breath.

"You have them pierced?" he asked, but sounded more like a squeak.

Without a response, Adam guided his hand to the buttons of the shirt, which Jordan could now see were only press studs. As he pulled the first one open, the base of his hand did the rest- all he had to do was nudge his hand past the others, hand tenderly caressing Adam's skin. Jordan watched in awe as Adam leisurely wriggled out of the shirt, letting it pool behind him. The first thing that caught Jordan's eye were the thin silver hoops in Adam's nipples, each accentuated with a light blue gem.

He'd never seen them in the flesh before. It was hot. And made him dizzy with anticipation, and he felt a red blush climb up his cheeks. Then he noticed the tattoo, again. His fingers traced it alongside Adam's ribs and down to his hip, where he let them trail over the pattern with his nails.

"Yeah," Adam answered after, "I've had them for a while now."

"You didn't before-"

"Protocol," Adam interrupted. "I can only have them in for private dances."

He stood, and slunk over to the pole with a soft wink. Jordan's lap felt cold without Adam draped over it. Adam placed both hands on pole, and as the music began to build up, rolled his hips against it. He did this once, twice, and after the third, thrust his legs up into the air and clamped them around the pole. Jordan gasped, not because of the impromptu action, but because of the elegance in Adam's movement. Spreading his legs after he'd gotten a good grip, he let go of one hand and clenched his ankle with it, allowing his entire body to extend from the pole, save for the one hand keeping him held up.

He held the position for a good couple of seconds, before knotting his leg back around the pole and sliding down. Jordan's breathing turned erratic, and he clasped his hands together. Adam hoisted his body up onto the pole again by clinching it with his left leg. He tugged himself upwards and began to spin, thighs tightly wound around the metal. Jordan hadn't seen Ginger-or-Blond do that, and it just looked so exquisite, so skilful, so mesmerising.

Only, he was desperately craving Adam's touch. He writhed a little, noticing his erection, then cursing himself again for his extreme lack of self control. Luckily for him, Adam recognised his discomfort and dropped from the pole, gliding down like the human version of a waterfall.

"You want me to pay _y_ _ou_  more attention, huh?"

Jordan nodded enthusiastically, lips still firmly shut. He did, even though he was eagerly looking forward to watching Adam pole dance especially. Using his knee, Adam pushed Jordan's thighs apart, as he'd done when he danced last week. Adam climbed up onto him, hands pressed against Jordan's chest.

"I'm glad," he murmured.

"Why?"

"You're actually quite relaxed today. It's good."

Jordan swallowed and let out a raspy laugh. "I'm not relaxed," he said. Adam's hands were teasing the hem of his white shirt.

"Better than before. I could barely get a reaction out of you."

Jordan looked at Adam through near shut lashes. His hands were now tracing lines onto his lower belly, which felt, albeit ticklish, fantastic.

"You okay with this?" Adam pushed his fingers into Jordan's hip.

"Is it just for tonight?" He avoided Adam's eyes.

"If you want it to be," And Jordan nodded.

Fingers hooked onto the material of Jordan's shirt and Adam managed to roughly pull the it up and off Jordan's head, who was blushing enough to rival the colour of the walls.

"Good Lord," Adam exclaimed under his breath once the shirt was off. He ran his fingers through the smattering of hair growing in spurts on Jordan's chest, and then experimentally let them roam further down, shutting his eyes as they massaged the ripples of muscle and reached the top of Jordan's jeans. They felt around for a buckle, or a button. When he found them, he slowly undid them both, letting the belt drop beside his feet. The fingers strayed past his jeans, tenderly feeling around his crotch. Jordan squirmed in response to Adam curling his fingers around his dick through his boxers.

"Pull your jeans further down," instructed Adam, who moved from Jordan's lap and back to the speakers, to turn them off. He began rummage for something in the drawers below it, finding a handful of lube sachets and holding them up to Jordan, shrugging.

"They aren't mine," he reassured, after he'd seen the look of horror on Jordan's face. "Probably from one of Dejan's flings or something."

Jordan wondered why he wouldn't even trust James, but believed every word Adam said. He'd been living with James for what felt like ever. He'd only known Adam for a few mere minutes. But, he told himself, it's just this once. You don't have to see him ever again if you don't want to.

It wasn't much longer until Adam was knocking knees with Jordan again, perched on his right knee, his hand probing into Jordan's boxers. He ripped open one of the sachets and emptied its contents into his hand, then reached into Jordan's boxers and let his cock spring out. Both of them inhaled sharply, as Adam smoothed the lube over Jordan's dick.

Jordan closed his eyes and let Adam coax him, lightly squeezing the dancer's arm. He felt his body tense up, and when he opened his eyes, Adam was gazing back at him, a supple smile playing on his lips.

"Hey, it's okay," Adam whispered. "I mean, we can stop if you want, just-"

"No," proclaimed Jordan, even though the protest sounded strangled. He couldn't even imagine how red he was now, and he wasn't checking the mirror to either his left or right, because that would be plain embarrassing.

"I swear, if I'm making you uncomfortable or anything, we can. Stop."

Jordan glanced down at Adam's shorts, where his erection too was straining against the leather. Did he expect Jordan to get him off too? Well, that would explain why Adam brought back three sachets.

"Please," said Jordan. "Don't stop."

Adam ran his thumb nail along the shaft of Jordan's cock, gripping him a little harder. This caused Jordan to jolt his back up straight, instinctively grabbing his own sachet from beside him. He repeated what Adam had done, yanking down Adam's shorts so fiercely it drew a breathy giggle from him.

"Okay then," Adam smirked and wound Jordan's hand around his waist to steady himself. He stretched backwards towards the floor and plucked the shirt off of it. "I'm not going to use this again, so we may as well," Adam panted when Jordan coiled his fingers around his cock.

As sickened as Jordan felt about the concept, Adam continued to pump his dick, drawing stifled moans from Jordan. He rest his face in the curve of Adam's neck, cupping Adam's balls and sucking air in through his teeth. Adam was much more vigorous, while Jordan was barely fondling- so Jordan brought him up to speed by pressing his forefinger into the slit of the tip, brushing the precome off and sliding it down the shaft.

Spewing expletives, Adam pulled himself closer against Jordan's chest, so close Jordan could feel the cool metal from Adam's piercings against his own nipple. He watched as a small drop of sweat formed on Adam's temple and dribbled and drowned into his beard. They were achingly close together, bodies pinned to each other and radiating. It was so hot, Adam's chest heaving against Jordan's and the cold of his piercings made Jordan feel  _so_  hot. He applied pressure to a thick vein running alongside the length of Adam's dick with the quivering base of his hand, which caused him to writhe on Jordan's lap and almost fall, if it weren't for Jordan's other arm secured firmly around his waist.

At some point, Jordan found himself groaning and grinding into Adam's hand, who snorted quietly, letting Jordan speed up his movements. Jordan wondered if anyone would walk in on them. And what would happen if they did. Adam had said there weren't any cameras; but did they have routine checks? The pair of them had certainly been inside the booth for a while, would someone be sent to search for Adam?

He was only being cautious, but it was very shortlived, as he felt himself bordering his climax. However, he'd stopped moving _his_  hand, and Adam was only eyeballing him in desperation.

"Uh," he grasped Adam's cock and continued to tug on it, pressing two fingers to the tip again, to collect and spread the precome. Adam mirrored him, and the sensation sent Jordan over the edge, the backs of his eyelids flashing white once he'd reached peak. White strands spilled from his cock and into Adam's hand.

"God," Adam gasped wiping his hand instantaneously on his blue shirt, then let himself relax into Jordan. He combed a hand through his hair and accidentally used the ball of his hand to smudge his eye makeup. Shortly after, Adam followed, tightening his arms around Jordan's neck while he came heavy onto Jordan's wrist. He offered the shirt so he could clean his hand up too.

Jordan slumped back into the sofa, still panting and weak from possibly the best orgasm he'd had in a long, long time. Adam shuffled off his lap and pulled his shorts back up, looking mortally dishevelled. When Jordan saw himself in the mirror after he stood, he wasn't in a much better state. His hair wasn't as tousled as Adam's (thank God for good hair gel) but he looked physically _feeble_ , as though he was going to collapse any second. His dick was still hanging out of his boxers, and he tucked it back in, searching around on the floor for his belt.

"Did you actually-?" Adam was inspecting a maroon bruise on his neck, which Jordan recognised as a hickey at a second glance. He didn't even notice he'd given Adam one. "Ugh. It's fine. Trust me, there is nothing concealer can't do."

"I'll um, take your word for it," Jordan said and picked up his shirt from the sofa. He pulled it over his head, then buckled his jeans up. Adam sat on the arm of the sofa and watched him dress.

"Here," he threw Jordan his hoodie. Jordan caught it and tied it loosely around his shoulders; he was still scorching. He watched himself in the mirror for a couple of seconds, registering exactly what he'd done.

"What now?" He questioned Adam.

"Now," Adam was examining his nails "You go through that door, and I go through this one."

"It's that easy?"

"The exit's on the right."

"Wow. Okay."

Adam stood up and closed the space between him and Jordan.

"I'll see you again, yeah?" He dusted something off Jordan's shoulder, his hands travelling down Jordan's back and into the dip just above his jeans. "Maybe we'll have more time to-" Jordan drew in a jagged breath as Adam groped his ass. "You know."

Jordan chewed the inside of his cheek. "Okay,"

Adam hummed. "This is the stupidest way I've ever seen anyone wear a jumper," he flipped the sleeves which were hanging over Jordan's chest.

Jordan lips jerked into a smile before walking over to the door and gliding it open. "Bye, Ads."

"You can just call me Adam, you know."

"I know," said Jordan dismissively, and shut the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos will be loved and cherished! <3


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